


Stolen Moments

by Morgana



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have to make the most of the time you have</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stolen Moments

  


They burst through the door with the force of a hurricane, but neither one notice or care when it slams shut behind them. Hands tear at clothes with unrestrained greed as they topple back against the bed, mouths fused together. Tongues twine about each other, driving the lust that shimmers between them to dizzying heights.

  
  


"How long?" Spike gasps, one hand closing around a breast, giving it a hard squeeze.

  
  


"An hour, maybe." It wasn't enough time. There was never enough time to really get their fill of each other, it seemed. Ten minutes here, thirty there, an hour or maybe two if they were extremely lucky, never more than that, or they risked discovery.

  
  


With only an hour, there's no time to tease and play as they would like. Besides, their hunger is too great for that. Both spend their time apart in a fever of desire and need, innocent brushes of hands and casual exchanges of words serving only to fuel the heat between them. Glances linger as long as they dare, until the hot looks are turned on their respective lovers, often along with a heated kiss or possessive caress, anything to ease the turmoil that burns inside them until they can slip away again.

  
  


Spike rolls them over, hands yanking her skirt up until he can pull her onto his lap. "Spose I should be grateful you're not wearin' petticoats," he teases, his light tone a contrast to the way his fingers stroke almost roughly over the seam of her sex before plunging in.

  
  


"You-ah!-don't fool me. You'd love to see me dressed like that," she returns, struggling briefly with the buttons on his fly that seem to work against her in her haste before finally yielding and allowing her to slip her hand in and draw his cock out.

  
  


"Damn right I would. Love undressin' you like that more, though." A few brief strokes with his hand while she circles him and squeezes gently and he's already desperate for her. He needs to be inside her, has to feel her wrapped around him, and just when he thinks he might scream from it, she shifts and slides down, taking him in to the hilt.

  
  


Once he's inside, she stills, just for a second. The feeling of him inside her is still new enough, still rare enough that she wants to savor it each time. He groans and reaches down to rub her clit, encouraging her to move, and with a soft moan, she begins to rock against him. Slow, God, how she wishes they could take it slow for once! But there's no time, and already heat is crawling up her legs and they haven't even really started yet.

  
  


Spike growls, his patience shattering when she circles her hips. He reaches for her, fingers digging into skin with a pressure that's just this side of real pain and lifts her, raising her up and down on his shaft until she catches the rhythm, but even when he relinquishes control of her movement, his grip doesn't lighten. She laughs, throwing her head back as she rides him, hair falling down her back in a silken curtain that tickles his fingertips. He thrusts up against her, her gasp when he jolts her making him smile and do it again.

  
  


Her fingernails dig into his shoulders, pinpricks of pain that make the pleasure so much hotter. He's taught her that, blurred that line forever for her the first time he bent her over a gravestone and made her beg to be fucked. His hands tighten and she moans, the sensation of predator and danger and lover prickling her skin. They don't make love- they fuck, and she wouldn't want it any other way. He's the only one to touch her like this, with a carelessness that borders on brutality, and if she didn't know his heart as well as she does, she'd be truly afraid of him. Her other lovers treated her as breakable, like she was made of spun glass that would shatter if they moved wrong. Spike's the only one that's ever seen her true nature, the only one to pin her to the mattress, hold her down and fuck her, and it's a million times better than she ever thought it could be.

  
  


"Spike," she whispers, eyes fastened on his as she nears her climax. There's a fire that burns in the dark blue depths that calls to her, whispers to an elemental part of her soul that she once believed to be evil. He always makes her feel like this, wild in ways nobody would believe, and when she comes, it's with a ringing shriek that sends shivers down both their spines.

  
  


Christ, he loves to watch her come! He could spend a week just making her come over and over again, in every imaginable manner and position, and still not be satisfied. Rolling over to lay her on the bed, he grabs her hands, hissing as her nails slice into his skin. He pins her hands above her head, holding her in place, a growl rumbling in his chest. When she rolls her hips against him, his control snaps and he starts to fuck her, hard and fast enough to drive air from her lungs in a strangled gasp. There's no prevarication to the heat in her eyes, no calculation to the way her hips buck against his, just need and a silent plea for more.

  
  


Spike drives into her, body slamming down with a force that could break bones if he were just a little less careful. She writhes under him, arms straining against his hold, hands flexing open and closed until the need to touch becomes too great and she whines, an animal noise that's answered with another of those rolling growls that reach down deep and tug at something vital and inherently female inside her. She digs her heels into the mattress, moving with him as much as she can.

  
  


The air around them seems to vibrate from the force of their fucking. It's a dance as old as time itself, male and female, light and dark, elemental and freeing for both of them. Higher, faster, harder, driving inexorably towards that point of no return, his harsh pants mingling with her chant of, "Oh, Spike... ohhhh, fuck, please!" One of his hands delves into her hair, fisting the strands and pulling back, stilling her instantly. He grinds down against her and lowers his mouth to her throat. She screams when his teeth sink into skin, feeling him grunt and shudder against him, pulsing inside her like another heartbeat. It feels like forever that she lays there, stretched between cock, fist and fangs, hot pleasure flashing wildly from one point to another and back, but it's too soon when he does draw back.

  
  


"How long?" he murmurs, licking his bite with long swipes that make her long to feel that tongue on other parts of her body.

  
  


"Ten minutes," she answers, absently combing her fingers through his hair, seeking any excuse to touch him. For a few precious seconds, they lie still, simply _being_, a blessed oasis in the chaos that their daily lives have become. But it can't last, and eventually he shifts, slowly withdrawing, the loss bringing a soft moan to both their lips.

  
  


Spike rolls over, tucking his prick back inside his jeans, then fastens them, while she smooths her skirts back down. A nod tells her he's ready and she lays a hand lightly on his chest, murmuring a soft phrase that fills the room with a gentle wind. When she withdraws her touch, the marks on his shoulder are gone, as is her bite and, she knows, the fingerprint bruises on her hips. Getting to her feet, Tara waits for Spike to do likewise before turning her face up for a last kiss. It's the one time they allow their feelings to show through, and the tender onslaught makes her heart ache even as she closes her eyes, leaving them closed until she hears the door close behind him once more.

  



End file.
